Seduction Deduction
by andromeda's song
Summary: John makes a deduction at a crime scene that leads Sherlock to believe that John is...up to something. What he doesn't know is that John has designed his own experiment aimed at seducing the great Sherlock Holmes. Warning: seduction techniques aimed at reeling in consulting detectives ahead. Nothing too out of control and in character as much as it can be.
1. Step 1: Deduction

**Hello! The title of this fic came to me in my sleep and so I decided to take a go at it. :) Just a warning, I do not know how to flirt (at all) so if this is totally out of control please let me know. Enjoy the ride!**

**Oh, and just so you know... everything that follows the break (00000000000) will be from John's POV unless otherwise noted. **

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Step 1: Deduction

"She was a violinist."

Everyone in the room turned to look at John. He was crouched over the body of a young woman, one of his gloved hands holding hers and looking at it in the light of the crime scene lamps. Feeling the sudden press of gazes, John looked up at them. Donovan's lips were pressed together in something resembling annoyance. Lestrade had a single eyebrow raised and had paused in writing in his notebook. Sherlock's eyes had widened fractionally and his mouth had opened partially.

"And how do you know that?" Lestrade asked, breaking the silence that was hanging awkwardly in the room.

"How indeed, John?" Sherlock murmured. John was absolutely right, of course, but Sherlock was curious as to how he'd worked it out.

John raised the woman's hands. "Her hands. She's got calluses on her left hand from where she holds the violin and presses the strings." He indicated the rougher flesh on her hand. "They're not thick calluses, so it rules out manual labour, and they're not in the right spots for someone who uses a computer all day." John picked up the woman's right hand. "And, she's got calluses here from where she holds the bow."

Lestrade looked dumbfounded. He looked to Sherlock, who nodded. "He's right, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "The woman is a violinist and given the genre and difficulty of the music on the stand over there," he pointed, "she was a professional."

Lestrade shook his head and wrote it down in his book before turning back to John. "How'd you know about those calluses, John?" he asked.

John shrugged a shoulder casually. "Sherlock's got the same calluses on his hands from when he plays."

Lestrade simply nodded and walked off into another part of the house, but Sherlock was staring at John with an intensity that would have made any other mortal squirm. John stared back with slightly raised eyebrows as if to say 'What?' Sherlock pressed his lips tighter together and went off in search of Lestrade.

John just smiled.

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The cab ride back to the flat was a quiet one, even for us. Sherlock doesn't usually make it a habit to speak unless he has something to say, and I don't like to interrupt him when he's thinking. Based on the face he's making right now and the way his fingers are tapping against his thigh, I know that he's thinking.

And I know exactly what he's thinking about.

It all sort of started when I had gotten injured on a case about a month ago. We had been chasing a murderer, which for us was just a typical Tuesday. Anyway, we'd followed him into this alleyway and it ended up being a dead end. He was trapped like a rat and he was anxious. He kept darting back and forth between the two walls and every time we'd make a pass to get closer to him, a very lethal looking knife would appear in his hand.

I did not have my weapon on me (Sherlock had sprung me out of the clinic for this case and I hadn't had the chance to go home) and so we were both weaponless against him. But, we had him trapped and we all knew that Lestrade and his gang were right on our heels. It was just a matter of time.

This, however, did not seem to hinder our criminal. In a flash of movement, he'd lunged towards Sherlock and then swiftly changed direction mid-stride, coming towards me instead. As he passed me, he sunk a blade into my gut and it felled me faster than I care to admit. As I was lying there on the ground, I could feel my own blood seeping out from between my fingers, but I only had eyes for the panicking consulting detective directly in my line of vision.

He was staring down at me with wide eyes and a mouth open in shock. He was pale and stuttering my name like he couldn't quite make his lips form the right syllable. He thudded to his knees right beside me and I felt his hands join mine in putting pressure on the bleeding wound. He stared at me with an intensity I had never seen before and I felt myself becoming lost in it. His lips were trembling and by now he'd taken off his scarf and was pressing that to my side as well. I'll never forget those moments because that's when I saw the great heart that lay behind the great brain.

And as I sank into unconsciousness, I am still sure to this day that I heard him say "Hang on John, hang on love, they're coming, just please hold on." I am sure he would deny it with all the vehemence in his soul, but I am sure he said it.

Well…after that, I had to know. Sherlock was the most irritating and childish person I'd ever met in my entire life, but gods help me if that didn't draw me in instead of repelling me. I had spent the first few months of our friendship and partnership ardently denying homosexuality, and yet here I was falling in love with my flatmate who was oh-so decidedly male. After I'd come to terms with my own sexuality (I wasn't gay, but I was still drawn to Sherlock, who was a man…I don't know how that works, but…that's how it is), I kept wandering back to that day and that knife wound and Sherlock's words.

I decided to do my own set of experiments to see if the great Sherlock Holmes, master of indifference, could be seduced. Ultimately, I wanted to find out if he was actually attracted to me as I was to him. I could probably just ask him or something… hell, I could probably just push him up against the wall after a thrilling chase and snog him and see if he responded. That would be fun… but since I've lived with Sherlock I've also learned a great many things and I've come to appreciate a great many things. And what would Sherlock appreciate more than a good old-fashioned experiment? Granted, this was a social experiment and I couldn't believe my own audacity at trying to seduce Sherlock Holmes… but I just had to try it out.

So far…it seemed to be working.

The plan was absurdly simple and so far Sherlock seemed to be playing along. The first part was the hardest, I thought, because it involved being able to make a correct deduction at a scene without Sherlock having divulged it first or without Lestrade providing the information. I'd waited several weeks to find the right case. When we'd happened upon this one, I'd nearly jumped for joy because it didn't take much for me to find out what the woman did. The stack of sheet music on the stand was partially hidden, but I could see 'Violin 1' printed at the top corner. And to be completely fair, I did recognise the calluses on her hands as being those that belonged to a string player because I had indeed noticed those same calluses on Sherlock's hands. He had such beautiful hands… so much different than my hands and on more than one occasion I had found myself looking at them.

I had observed and catalogued Sherlock's reaction to my deductions and even though he seemed pleased he also seemed startled. I couldn't decide whether to be flattered or insulted by this and he wasn't exactly forthcoming.

That's why I was surprised when he turned to me in the cab and said, "Did you really know the woman was a violinist based on the calluses on her hands?"

Ah. There it was. I snorted in amusement. "Of course I did. You think you're the only clever one around?" I resisted the urge to poke him in the ribs with my elbow.

He rolled his eyes and shifted his body to face me more directly. "John," he intoned, "have you really observed the calluses on my hands?" His voice was soft and quiet and a little…hesitant, like he couldn't believe I'd taken notice of something like the calluses on his hands.

I looked at him with a small smile on my face. "Of course I have, Sherlock. I notice lots of things about you." I left it at that, not wanting to give too much away.

It had the desired effect. Sherlock blinked at me a few times and then turned back to the window with a soft huff of his breath. It wasn't an irritated huff, but instead a curious huff, like the sound he'd make when he was particularly interested in a problem.

Oh this was going to be fun.


	2. Step 2: Experimentation

Step 2: Experimentation

Sherlock heaved himself up the steps of 221 to his flat. If there was one thing he hated (and granted he hated a lot of things) but he hated the incompetency of the police force more than he hated Mycroft's interference, nicotine patches, and bean sprouts all put together. He'd spent the entire morning with Lestrade and Donovan resorting evidence from their latest case and Sherlock had to go over all of his deductions again because they were too thick to see it for themselves. It had been a categorical waste of time and made his nerves stand on end. He felt like an angry cat, all bristled and arched, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. What was more, he'd had a few experiments bubbling away at the table when he'd left, and John would surely be—

Sherlock halted in his tracks as he entered the kitchen, not daring to believe what he saw in front of him. John was standing in front of a Bunsen burner and holding a beaker of purplish liquid over the flames, the faint scents of basil and yew filling the air. John's arms were encased in blue chemist's gloves and he had a black apron tied around his torso. Sherlock was definitely sure that he was going mad as the doctor set the beaker gently into its rack and pushed the goggles up into his sandy blonde hair.

"Hey," John said casually, as if this was something totally within the bounds of normalcy in 221 B. Well…technically it was within the bounds of normalcy, but Sherlock was always the one that was playing with chemicals and John was the one doing the yelling and the chastising. Sherlock didn't quite know what to make of the scene playing out before him.

"Hey," Sherlock echoed, not knowing what else to do. "Um, John… what are you doing?"

John removed his glove and laid them on the table. "Uh, when I got up I saw your…experiments going to town here but I couldn't find you. They had started to um, boil over a little but so I just followed the directions in your little book here." John held up his notebook and the scrawled instructions on the pages.

"I had to go to the Yard," Sherlock explained, his eyes never leaving John's. "Lestrade was being annoying again. Took longer than I anticipated."

John nodded in understanding. He looked at Sherlock warily. "Is it…um, is it okay that I touched this stuff? I know I don't usually go near it but…it was boiling over and then I just sort of…got carried away. It is rather interesting. Although I am a little curious as to why you're mixing plant essences with volatile chemicals."

Sherlock worked overtime to keep his jaw from dropping in shock. In all the time they'd lived together, John hadn't really taken an interest in his chemical work. John was educated and a doctor, so he knew a little bit about what he was doing, but he'd always been the one to make a fuss about the experiments and their occupation of the shared living space. This…was a mad turn of events.

Sherlock hung his coat up and rolled up his sleeves, grabbing the other apron from the rack. He moved over to the table and put on his own pair of gloves. Well, if John was genuinely interested in what he was doing, then he was going to tell him. A quick glance told Sherlock that John had followed the directions explicitly and hadn't missed anything. He shot the doctor a glance from across the table.

"Are you sure you want to get into this, John?" he asked.

John shrugged. "Why not? I don't have anything better to do. Do you mind?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "Not at all…"

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Oh this was too easy. As Sherlock launched into an explanation of why he'd mixed common herbs with volatile chemicals, I could see the way his eyes kept flicking back to me, just to make sure that I was still paying attention. I knew that he was thoroughly confused as to why I had all of a sudden taken an interest in his chemical experiments, but he was doing a damn good job in keeping that to himself.

To be completely fair, I really was interested. Normally, I was the one that railed against Sherlock and his damned experiments cluttering up our kitchen and turning our fridge into a biohazard receptacle, but when I realised that I'd slowly been falling in love with the damned man, I knew I'd have to change my tune a little about the experiments. I was still not okay with the toes in my crisper and I would never be okay with finding heads next to the chicken, but the experiments were a part of Sherlock and they always would be. And…I'd be lying if I said I didn't find any of the experiments interesting. I'd taken chemistry, after all, and it had been fun.

I figured that a good way to show Sherlock that I was interested in him would be to show him that I was interested in what he was doing. Finding the multi-coloured liquids boiling over on my kitchen table this morning had been a great opportunity. I'd found his notebook and decided that I was intelligent enough to do the experiments without messing them up. And so, I'd donned the safety attire and gone to work. Again, I'd be lying if I said I didn't find something enjoyable about it.

There was something completely enthralling about watching Sherlock explain his experiments. It was almost like watching him deduce people or solve crimes, but there was something decidedly more… genuine about this interaction with me. Sherlock was Sherlock and he never attempted to hide who he was, but there was something inherent about his work with the Yard that screamed 'exhibitionist'. He was constantly performing for the Yard, putting up a show to ensure that their biting derogatory words never got to him. When he was here, in the comfort of our home and with me, his best friend and partner, he didn't hide. He didn't perform or anything. I watched him show me the beakers of liquids and the equations in his notebook with genuine pride and a natural scientist's curiosity. It made something deep inside me wriggle with pride, love, and satisfaction.

"Here," he said, handing me a pair of tongs with a beaker clasped inside. "You can take this thyme extract and mix it with the sodium chloride."

I accepted the tongs and raised my eyebrow at him. "You want me to keep working with you?"

He paused over a beaker of neon orange liquid and turned to face me. I swear I saw a faint blooming of blood creep into his cheeks, but he swallowed that quickly.

"If you're amenable," he replied. "It would help to procure the results in a smaller window of time. Perhaps we could go get dinner later?" He looked at me with a look that he was trying to pass off as nonchalant.

I was leaping for joy inside but I kept my demeanour calm. No need to scare off the poor man. "Sure," I said. "Sounds good to me."


	3. Step 3: Harmonization

Step Three: Harmonization

If there was one day a year that Sherlock truly despised, it was his birthday. Even Christmas with all its ghastly holiday cheer and sentimental religious fanaticism and commercial hype was better than his birthday. It never fails that on the day you were unceremoniously delivered into the world covered in goo and wailing frenetically, people will take the time to talk to you and wish you a happy birthday, and somehow it always goes about sounding so insincere.

Granted, Mrs. Hudson had always been the one exception to that rule, because Sherlock could not deny his affection for the older woman. Lestrade always wished him a happy birthday, but Sherlock was merely annoyed that the man made it a point to remember instead of just letting it slide. People were always convinced that it was better if people remembered, but Sherlock had always wondered why he wasn't allowed to be happy if people forgot that it was his birthday. Was there some sort of universal rule about that that he never saw?

Sherlock had thought that John would be the type of bloke who also enjoyed letting his birthdays slip by unnoticed, and therefore would allow Sherlock's to pass as well, but he had no such luck. When John had figured out Sherlock's birthday, he took great pains to make a festive celebration out of the event, which didn't turn out exactly the way either of them had planned. In the uncomfortable chat after the failed celebration, Sherlock had told John that although he appreciated the effort, he was just not a celebration person. John had graciously taken the hint and abandoned his efforts at grand celebrations. However, as they'd grown to know each other, John had made more subtle and elastic attempts to celebrate Sherlock's birthday. He would start the day by giving Sherlock a cup of tea and saying happy birthday. Then, he'd pretty much let Sherlock do whatever he wanted all day without saying a word (or trying not to say a word) about it. After Sherlock had spent the day experimenting at home, playing with bodies at Bart's, solving crimes, or just sitting at home thinking, John would order in some Chinese food and get Sherlock's favourite meal. Sherlock would eat it, knowing that it was the least he could do for the man who had respected his wish to let his birthday pass without any major fuss.

This year, Sherlock was not too sure that John was going to let this birthday slide. John's behaviour as of late had been particularly confounding and that never boded well for the detective. He could read in John's body language that he was up to something, but he'd been unable to deduce what and had also (surprisingly) failed to find the answer while snooping through John's laptop. Hmm. The doctor was getting better.

On the day of Sherlock's birthday, he woke up in his bed after having collapsed there sometime around 2:00 in the morning. He blearily got up and wrapped his dressing gown around him, padding down to the kitchen in his bare feet. John was mysteriously absent from the living room and the kitchen, which made Sherlock curious and worried. He checked the calendar on the wall. John did not have clinic work today, so where was he?

On the kitchen table, Sherlock saw a steaming mug of tea and a plain white envelope with his name on it. Sherlock cocked his head to the side and took up the envelope in his hand, ignoring the tea. John had scrawled his name on the front in his inelegant doctor's hand (really, did all doctors have training for illegible handwriting?). He ripped open the envelope and read the note inside.

_Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio. _

Sherlock frowned at the note. What was John up to? Sherlock stared into the opposite wall and searched his mind palace to see if that particular phrase had ever been entered into his library. He eventually found it in a cabinet of old English literature, apparently a line from the Shakespearean play _Hamlet_. If Sherlock remembered correctly, the scene was typically done with the actor holding a skull in his hands—

Sherlock's glance stole to the skull on the mantle. A small, wicked smile played out on his face. Oh, John was good…the tease of riddles was ridiculously more entertaining than merely letting him do whatever he pleased. Sherlock might actually enjoy this birthday. He let the first note drop to the floor as he strode over to the mantle to pick up the skull.

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Sherlock appeared at the table inside Angelo's around noon. I smiled because it was absolutely perfect timing, but I couldn't resist teasing him a little.

"Getting a little slow with the riddles, don't you think?" I grinned and pushed a glass of wine towards him as he took a seat opposite me.

He threw me a scandalized look and took a sip of the wine. "I would have been here sooner, but someone insisted on taking me through the park, which was a totally unnecessary detour." He studied me for a moment before asking his next question. "So what are we doing here?"

I looked at him pointedly. "Having lunch, like we usually do when we come to Angelo's," I said.

He groaned. "But I just ate yesterday!"

I clucked my tongue like the mother hen I was. "You ate half of a blueberry muffin at 7:00 in the morning yesterday. That was over 24 hours ago, so you're going to put something in your stomach right now, even if it's just soup or a salad."

He sighed, but grudgingly ordered a thick chicken and gnocchi soup and ate a decent portion of it dutifully. We made a little small talk about the last case we had wrapped up and such, but most of the meal passed in companionable silence. When we had finished and Angelo had waived the bill (as usual), we left and strolled down the sidewalk a bit.

We'd walked aimlessly for about 15 minutes before Sherlock spoke. "John, why did you do that for me today?"

I turned to him as we walked and let him see the smile on my face. "It's your birthday, Sherlock. I know I never do anything extravagant, but…" I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "I just had a bit of inspiration and decided you couldn't get too angry with me if I involved riddles."

He stopped in his tracks and looked at me with a most unreadable face. I could practically hear the gears in his brain ticking and clicking and whirring away. After a few moments, he smiled shyly and reached out and took my hand. He squeezed it once and said, "Thank you, John," in a quiet and polite voice.

I was trying to keep my head above the flurry of activity in my brain that was centred around the feeling of Sherlock's hand in mine (it sounded something like **Sherlockstouchingmyhandohmygodwatsonpullyourselfto getheryoucandothissoldier**). I smiled graciously and squeezed his hand back, but not letting go just yet. I cleared my throat and moved forward with part two of my birthday celebration for Sherlock.

"Since you're still not mad at me," I said, "I have another surprise for you." Still not letting go of his hand, I reached into my jacket pocket and retrieved another envelope. I handed it to him and tried not to let my exuberance and nervousness boil over. "Here," I said.

He let go of my hand and took the envelope, watching my eyes as he opened the flap. He stared at the contents and looked back to me, his eyebrow quirked up and his mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile. I felt a leaping in my chest at his apparent satisfaction.

"Will you go?" I asked.

He took the ticket out of the envelope. It was for a special symphonic concert… one of Sherlock's favourite violinists—Maxim Vengerov—was performing the Sibelius Violin Concerto with the London Symphony Orchestra that afternoon. Mycroft had helped me secure the tickets and had been surprisingly silent about the entire operation. I suspected this meant I was going to owe him in the future, but it was all worth it for the look of childlike glee on Sherlock's face.

I was concerned when he frowned. "What?" I asked, suddenly uncertain.

He looked at me. "Won't you be going with me?" he asked.

I could have died at that moment and it would have been fine, because those six words had sparked a warm fire in my chest and I had to check to make sure that my feet were still on the ground. I couldn't hide my grin as I spoke.

"Of course I'm going with you, you great git."

Sherlock's face broke into a luminous grin again and in a moment of what I knew to be utter spontaneity and abandon, he threw his arms around me and embraced me tightly, even momentarily lifting me off the ground. After a few moments, he pulled back and looked me in the eye, a pink flush spreading across his elegant face.

"Thank you," he breathed. "I am…not good with this sort of thing, but really John…I am thankful for this. This is one of my favourite pieces."

I gently cuffed him alongside the head. "I know, Sherlock. Really, you think you're the only observant one around!" He smiled at my gentle gruffness and pulled me along by the hand until we could find a cab to take us to the concert hall.

I will never forget the look of utter rapture on his face as he listened to the gorgeous music being played. It was sweet and passionate and frantic and energetic… there was so much feeling that I didn't know could be conveyed through a small piece of wood and steel string. But I could see that as Sherlock watched his fellow artists, he was not only capable of feeling and being emotive, but that he was also pleased to do so. Suddenly, all of those 3 am violin recitals seemed so much more than just Sherlock using it as a method of solving problems. Sherlock catalogued himself as a sociopath, implying that he was either incapable of understanding human emotion or unwilling to participate in it. But the man I watched at the symphony that afternoon was clearly being moved by the careful passion of the music and suddenly I understood. Sherlock was not incapable or unwilling to feel…we mortals just didn't understand how he felt or how he communicated his thoughts. His deductions, his experiments, and his violin…these were his methods of communicating to others. It just varied so much from the social norm that people were scared off by the unusualness of it and he was dismissed as a freak and a sociopath. In that moment of realisation, my need to be around Sherlock Holmes grew to a point where I could feel it bursting out of my chest. I realised it didn't matter so much if I succeeded in seducing Sherlock… all I wanted was for him to know that someone cared about him and understood—at least at a base level—how he emoted and how he operated.

During one particularly moving part of the concerto, he silently reached over and took my hand, tapping the beat of the music and embellishing upon it ever so lightly upon the inside of my wrist. I let him and made no move, showing him that I understood how he was talking to me. At one point, I looked over and noticed that Sherlock had closed his eyes and was letting the sound wash over him, but his fingers were still tapping gently against my arm. It was the closest I'd ever come to understanding a human soul and it was glorious.

He talked about that concert for weeks after. Each time he did, he made it a point to reach to me and tap gently at the inside of my wrist. I let him and I listened to his words gladly.

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**A/N: So….in case you can't tell, I'm a musician. I believe very strongly in the power and the beauty of music as a method of communication between human souls. If you read the ACD canon, you see that his Sherlock not only played the violin but also attended concerts and talked fairly frequently about music. In my mind, Sherlock is an artist and he uses his music to convey the thoughts and the feelings that he can't do with words. As cold and indifferent as we like to make him, he is still a musician and I've yet to find a musician who lacks the capacity to emote. You couldn't make music effectively if it was just ink on the page.**

**PS: Do check out Maxim Yengerov playing the Sibelius Violin Concerto. It's fantabulous. :)**


	4. Interlude: Defamation

**Okay, so I have to tell you... I am completely and utterly overwhelmed by the response to this fic. I can't believe how many of you have been reading along, not to mention all the follows and the reviews and the favorites...it's incredible and I thank you all soooo much for it. Every time I check my email and I see another person has started following...it's like cocaine for the author, I'm telling you (which is not a funny joke considering what fandom I'm writing for...) Ha! Sooooo...thank you all so much, and have an angsty, fluffy interlude in return. **

**This will first be told from Sherlock's POV and then John's POV after the break. **

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Interlude: Defamation

I'd always been under the impression that Sally Donovan was a particularly nauseating human being. Sure, I guess as far as average people are concerned, she is technically considered to be bright, and she is a quasi-respectable Sergeant with New Scotland Yard. But from the first day we'd met, there had been an instantaneous mutual abhorrence of each other. I honestly don't think it had degraded to actual hatred, because hatred is a far deeper sentiment than most people realise. No, Sally Donovan didn't hate me and I didn't hate her. However, we were two busses, a cab ride, and a very long walk from liking each other. The most that could be said was that we tolerated one another.

Barely.

I detested her for her ignorance, her insolence, and her blatant superiority complex and she detested me because apparently I'm 'ridiculous'. I found that most of the people working with the Yard and the Met have a pitiable measure of intelligence and sometimes their incompetence is astounding, but Sally Donovan was something different. Sally went above and beyond the call of annoyance seemingly just to irritate me. And then there were always her pitiful attempts to mock me by calling me "freak" and refusing to acknowledge my expert opinions. Oh yes, I was well aware of the techniques Sally Donovan used to try to defame me and they were always ineffective because 1.) she was an idiot and 2.) I was well aware of my social shortcomings and hardly needed reminding.

This is why I found the incident of 19 April to be particularly disconcerting.

I had been helping Lestrade with a most unusual and intriguing case… an apparently random kidnapping of a 7 year old girl from a park in Islington. It had taken me far too long to see the connection to the mother's ex-husband (I'd ruled him out because he was supposed to be on manoeuvres in the Atlantic with the Navy…apparently he'd missed that appointment). However, once I'd gotten on his trail, I'd been able to track him to a ramshackle cabin in the middle of the woods. He'd come out of the cabin with a frankly alarming-looking shotgun and proceeded to pick away at us. John was the only one with a weapon since the Met was late (as usual). When he'd run out of ammunition, he took off into the woods. John and Lestrade took off after him, John shouting for me to go to the cabin and find the girl.

Most people usually tag me as the kind of person who finds children to be deplorable, and in some cases they're right. Children can be irritating and downright sassy little creatures, and the young ones always seem to be sticky. However, I've always admired the fact that children are empty pages that have yet to be filled. Their natural sense of wonder and curiosity is something that I respected and appreciated. Give me the right child at the right age and in the right situation and I wouldn't have minded being with him or her. So when John had told me to go find the girl, I went without argument, knowing that she would be terrified and possibly hurt.

When I entered the cabin's single room, I saw her right away. She was a small little thing, pale and with a head of soft auburn curls and a dusting of freckles over her nose. She was curled up on the bed, her knees drawn to her face and her arms clutching tightly. She was staring at me with huge, round eyes and I could see from the door that she was trembling. I approached her very slowly, like I would approach a wild animal. I opened my arms and relaxed my facial features to show her that I meant her no harm. Now if only I could remember her name….

"Marina," I murmured, recalling the young girl's peculiar name. "Marina, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I'm here to help you."

She didn't move, but she blinked at me a few times and her left arm twitched.

"Marina," I repeated calmly. "Is it okay if I come to sit with you?" I had stopped moving and was standing about five feet away from her, in the centre of the small cabin.

It took a few very long minutes, but finally she lowered her knees and nodded her head. I moved slowly towards the cot and kept my eyes fixed on her while I did so. I lowered myself to the stiff mattress and waited for her to make the first move.

"Marina," I said, "it's okay. You're safe now and we're going to take you home to your mum. Okay?"

Well, that did it. At the mention of her mum, I saw Marina's exterior crumble and dissolve into dust. Her big hazel-green eyes filled with hot tears and she screwed her face up in an effort to keep them from falling, but she wasn't successful. She abandoned all of her shyness and scrambled over the cot to snuggle herself onto my lap and press her face into my chest. Her poor little body wracked with the silent sobs and her tears wetted my shirt. I gently placed my arms around her and rocked her back and forth as she cried.

I may not be entirely comfortable with human contact, but something inside me cracked ever so slightly at the sight and the feel of this miserable little girl nestled in my arms. Adults hurting adults was one thing, but adults hurting children… there was something unforgivable in that action that not even my status as a sociopath could nudge. The little child in my embrace was so fragile and so delicate and so…precious. I couldn't imagine who would ever—

That's the moment when Sally Donovan burst into the cabin with a squad of Met police all shouting and carrying weapons. Upon hearing the extra burst of scary sounds and turning in my grasp to see the extra people in the space, Marina panicked and began to shout frantically, wriggling in my arms. I tried to soothe her, but in the space of a breath I felt Marina being plucked from my arms by a belligerent Sally Donovan. She cradled the wailing child and tried to melt me with her glare.

"Oi! What were you thinking, freak?! The poor thing's been traumatised; she doesn't need any extra from you!" Sally was spitting these words at me. Marina was crying even harder.

I found myself completely unable to speak. I could only stare open-mouthed at Sally, my mind concocting a million different comebacks and insults but none of them able to come out. I shut my mouth tightly and glared at Donovan with all the venom I could muster, and then I stormed out of the cabin and into the woods. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Lestrade had cuffed the ex-husband and was leading him away. John was shouting my name, but I ignored him as I stalked off into the forest.

There was rage in my heart and venom in my mind, but it was all being overshadowed by an enormous amount of pain and fear laced with a colouring of guilt. Of course, I hadn't done anything, I knew that. Sally had looked at something and made an incorrect assumption. That's why she was an idiot. But for some reason, I couldn't help but find that the words that never bothered me before seemed to cut a little deeper today. In the back of my very logical mind I knew that there was no need for me to…_feel_ all of this, but it was there all the same and it wasn't going away. I was aware of John moving in my periphery, but I didn't want to talk to him.

All I could see was Marina's big, frightened eyes staring at me. All I could feel was the trembling of her tiny body as it cradled against mine. All I could taste was the stinging bite of Donovan's words and the heavy blows of her implications finally crushing part of my defence. I'm not sure that John could fix that.

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Sherlock didn't talk to me after the case for about two days. To be fair, he didn't talk to anyone after that case with the little girl. I tried to talk to him in the woods, but he refused to even acknowledge my existence, instead choosing to pace long circles in the leafy detritus. We left the scene without speaking to anyone else. When we'd gotten to our rental car, I could see that Donovan was heading out of the cabin with the girl clutched in her arms. I saw Sherlock freeze and stare unblinkingly at the pair of them, but he made no comment.

When we'd arrived back at Baker Street, he'd locked himself in his room and had only come down in the dead of night when I was in my room. During those nights, I heard him playing the most sorrowful and dissonant melodies on his violin. I had left him a plate of toast and a cup of tea before I went to bed each night, but each morning I found them both untouched.

Between the heart-wrenching violin recitals and the absolute refusal to touch even a mug of tea, I knew something had gone terribly wrong in the cabin. Lestrade hadn't gotten in touch yet for our reports or anything of the sort, so I was still unaware as to what had happened. I knew Sherlock wasn't going to divulge the information anytime soon. Gods knew that Sherlock didn't speak about anything that he didn't want to.

Needless to say I was surprised when I saw him come downstairs to the living room on the third day after the completion of the case, showered and wearing his usual black trousers and a pressed white shirt without a jacket and rolled sleeves. He went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea and I saw him nibbling on a biscuit that Mrs. Hudson had left for us on the table. I watched him do these things from my desk and chose not to make a comment, instead preferring to observe his actions and wonder what he was up to. He came into the living room and plopped himself down on the couch, picking up the newspaper that lay on the coffee table and began to read.

I started a bit when I heard the doorbell ring. I waited just a moment, but Sherlock made no move to get it, so I got up from my chair to go and answer it. I was surprised to find a little girl standing in the doorway with an older woman, probably her mother. I was even more surprised to find that I recognised them both; it was the little girl from our last case… Marina, and her mother, Tabitha.

"Hello," I greeted them.

Tabitha shook my hand and Marina stared up at me with her round hazel eyes. She had one hand clasped in her mother's grasp and the other curled around a smallish box.

"I hope you'll forgive our intrusion, Dr. Watson," Tabitha was saying. "But Marina wanted to visit Mr. Holmes."

Well…that was a surprise. "Come in, please," I said, ushering them inside and up to our flat. When we got inside, I saw Sherlock glance over at us once, but then he froze and looked back very slowly. Tabitha and I stood back as Marina moved forward towards Sherlock. The pair only had eyes for each other.

Tabitha leaned over and whispered in my ear. "She wanted to say thank you," she explained. I nodded but was all too interested in what was happening in front of me.

Marina had moved to stand directly in front of Sherlock, who had abandoned the paper in favour of the small girl in front of him. They stared at each other for a few long seconds, neither one doing anything but blinking. Then, Marina very deliberately placed the smallish box behind her on the coffee table and proceeded to crawl into Sherlock's lap. I watched him stiffen at first, but as the girl wound her arms around his long neck and buried her face in his shoulder, I saw him relax and his eyes slid shut in what I would have taken to be gratitude. I was filled with a sense of pride and longing as I watched this man who most people affiliated with machinery hug a 7 year old girl with gratitude in his every gesture. I didn't really understand it….he had saved her, but he was responding to her embrace with thankfulness that was uncommon for Sherlock. It was beautiful. I could hear Tabitha sniffling.

We'd sent Marina off with a few of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits (which had delighted her to no end) and I could almost feel the waves of satisfaction rolling off of Sherlock. I made us both a cup of tea and went to sit next to him on the sofa. He accepted the tea and then picked up the box that Marina had left for him. He opened it up and I heard him inhale sharply. I looked over to see what it was.

Inside the box was a delicately folded piece of paisley fabric, all done in muted shades of blue and grey and olive. Nestled in the fabric was a round magnifying glass with a gracefully carved ebony handle. The glass had been polished and shined and the rim around the glass was made of abalone. It was truly a beautiful thing and I was in awe at the beauty and the depth of the little girl's gift.

Sherlock picked it up with a gentle hand and handed me the box. He began to examine it in greater detail while I searched through the rest of the box. Underneath the paisley silk there was a handwritten note, the writing very well done for a girl of seven years. The message was a simple one; "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Love, Marina Hanson" I nudged Sherlock gently with my elbow and showed him the note. He gazed at it with an absolutely unreadable face.

After a few minutes, he gently packed the glass back into the box and set it on the table. When he was finished, I was in for my third surprise of the day when he very gently eased himself over so that he was curled up against my side. I moved my arm so that it was wrapped around his shoulders and he snuggled closer into my side in a rare show of intimacy. He rested his head back against my shoulder and began to tell me about that day and what had happened in the cabin.

He spoke for a few minutes about the events at the cabin, and I felt an animosity towards Sally Donovan building in the pit of my stomach like a rumbling volcano. That damned woman had been the cause of Sherlock's two-day demise, all because she was too bloody jaded and thick to really observe instead of making assumptions. I was surprised when Sherlock kept on speaking, elaborating on the fact that he really didn't mind children all that much, especially when they were quiet and intelligent like Marina. It was a rare show of honesty for Sherlock and he did it all while nestled in my embrace like…like a lover? Maybe. Right now I was content to be the best friend as he spilled out a part of his personality that so few knew. I knew exactly just how privileged I was to be hearing this. I doubted even Mycroft knew the things Sherlock was telling me right now.

He fell asleep on my shoulder and I let him nap there in my embrace. His arms had wound around my middle and I sent out a silent thank-you to Marina Hanson, and not for the reason you might think. Yeah, I was glad that Sherlock was in my arms and I was happy for him to be there even if the reasons weren't so good. But I was more thankful that Marina had provided me with a chance to see more into Sherlock's soul and provided him with the chance to open up without fear of condemnation. That was more important than anything else she could have given us.

* * *

**This really got away from me. Hopefully you can see where it fits in with the theme of the piece. :)**


	5. Step 4: Deviation

Step Four: Deviation

"Are you absolutely certain that we have to do this?"

John's hesitant and annoyed voice echoed from the loo and reached Sherlock's ears. He smirked and chuckled under his breath, adjusting the buttons on his cuffs as he did.

"Positive, John. The killer will be in attendance at this event and we must do our best to blend into the crowd so that we might catch him in the act," Sherlock said, raising his voice slightly so that it would carry to the other room. He heard John grumble something unintelligible and then shuffle something about as he left the loo and came out into the living room.

Sherlock had to bite his tongue rather severely in order to avoid laughing wholeheartedly at John. The doctor was wearing a vibrant poncho in shades of bright red, blue, and orange, all decked out with green and yellow fringe. He was also wearing tan trousers, a borrowed pair of flip-flops, and he'd let a moustache grow out under his nose. There was a straw sombrero clasped in his left hand and he was glaring at Sherlock with the heat of a thousand suns.

"Go ahead," he growled. "I know you want to laugh, so just do it before I decide to punch you. And I won't avoid your teeth this time."

Sherlock flashed him a brilliant smile but kept the laugh tucked away. "Really, John, you look spectacular."

John scoffed. "I look like a bloody idiot. I'm pretty sure no one in Mexico actually dresses like this."

Sherlock shrugged. "You'd be surprised, actually. Besides, it's a Cinco de Mayo party in _London_, everyone's going to be wearing something like this, you'll fit right in."

"Easy for you to say," John mumbled, eyeing Sherlock's matador outfit. The black, knee-length bullfighter's trousers snugged the detective in all the right places. He was wearing a white shirt and a maroon jacket that had delicate gold and white piping placed tastefully along the seams. His head was encased in a black beret and there was a bright red sash tied across his waist. Sherlock looked like he belonged in those clothes. John looked like he'd been ambushed by a mariachi band.

"If I have to dance in a conga line tonight," John groused, "I will kill you. Properly this time."

Sherlock couldn't contain his chuckles on that one.

The festive pair left Baker Street and ended up at the Cinco de Mayo party about a half an hour later. The event was being held inside one of the downtown dance clubs, but everything inside had been rearranged to look like a cheap cantina in Guadalajara. It was unbearably fake, but John couldn't help but notice that there were an absurd amount of brightly-coloured serapes and ponchos and other commercial Mexican miscellany. There was a mariachi band going to town on the stage and the lights were held in shades of yellow and orange instead of the usual blues and violets.

Sherlock found them a table and slid into his seat. John ordered them both some colourful drink made with tequila and brought it to the table. They both sipped absently at their drinks as the mariachi band was replaced with Latino pop music blaring from the speakers. People migrated to the dance floor with varying whoops and cheerful cries as the party got underway.

John leaned over the table to speak. "Now, who are we looking for again?"

Sherlock leaned over as well. "His name's Malcolm Erickson. Roughly six feet in height, thin, and has a shaved head and a cobra tattooed on his right bicep. He will most likely be circling around any of the clusters of younger women."

John nodded and began to casually watch the crowd as he sipped his drink. Someone had caught Sherlock's eye, but it wasn't Malcolm Erickson. He watched with wary curiosity and suspicion as a buxom young woman with long, dark hair and smouldering eyes made her way over to their table.

0000000000

I had been watching the sea of dancers and minglers with apparent intensity, because I didn't notice that someone had joined our table until I felt a hand on my knee. I jerked at the touch and glanced over at Sherlock, but I was distracted by the incredibly gorgeous woman that was now sitting beside me and stroking my knee lightly with her hand. She had naturally tanned skin and shiny, dark hair that fell in soft waves to the middle of her back. She had even, white teeth that were currently bared in a beautiful smile.

I gulped. "Hello," I said.

"Hey there, Doctor Watson," she said. Her voice was a smoky alto purr that reminded me too much of the sultry baritone belonging to the detective sitting across from me, who was currently rolling his eyes.

I frowned. "Do I know you?"

She laughed and offered me the hand that had been stroking my knee. I shook it…she had a firm grasp. "My name is Vanessa Dominguez… I'm the new doctor at the clinic."

Oh yes. The puzzle piece clicked into place. This was the new woman Sarah had hired about a week ago. She hadn't made a favourable impression on me. "Oh! I'm sorry…I haven't been to the office much lately, I do apologise."

She made a pouty face. "I can't believe you would honestly forget me that soon, John."

I didn't have the guts to tell this beautiful woman that I honestly didn't give her much thought because 1.) she was a second-rate doctor, honestly and I have no idea why Sarah hired her and 2.) I was definitely more interested in my male flat-mate than I was her. Instead, I gave her a weak smile and poked myself in the temple. "I'm losing my mind, what can I say?" She laughed and patted my knee again.

Sherlock was staring at me, but I couldn't look at him. I knew exactly the face he was giving me right now and if I saw it I knew I was going to lose my cool and probably jump right over the table and throttle him. Instead, I forced myself to smile at Vanessa again.

A particularly peppy tune came over the speakers and Vanessa squealed a little and jumped up. She held out a hand to me. "Care to dance with me, John?"

I heard Sherlock scoff under his breath. I threw him a glare but he merely gave me the tell-tale Holmes smirk.

I looked back at Vanessa. "Um, not right now, Vanessa. But thanks for the offer." There. That ought to wipe the smirk off that elegantly smug face.

"You want my number?" she asked playfully.

I gritted my teeth into what I hoped looked like a smile. "Um, you know what I think I have your card on my desk at home," I lied.

She giggled and nodded, turning away towards the dance floor. She looked back over her shoulder and said, "Call me!" with a wink and a blown kiss.

After she'd left, I slumped down in my seat and blew out a breath. The tequila was good, but now I just wanted to go home. The poncho was getting warm and my moustache was tickling me. I finally glanced over at Sherlock. He was watching me with one of his deducing faces.

"Stop it," I muttered. "No deducing."

He grunted and then took a sip of his drink and I could tell he was formulating his words. "John, why didn't you go dance with her?"

I felt my heart flutter in panic a little but I shrugged my shoulders and made a noncommittal noise. "We're working."

"Erickson isn't here yet…you could have gone if you wanted. You might have even bumped into our target on the dance floor, who knows, you could have shortened this whole endeavour significantly." By the end of the tantrum, he was practically spitting his words at me. I wasn't giving in.

"Is that what you wanted me to do, Sherlock?"

He sniffed regally and looked away. "No," he mumbled.

I smirked at him. "Then shut up." I took a sip of my drink while he rolled his eyes at me. "Besides," I added, "she's not exactly my type."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at me. "Actually, I thought given the data I've gathered on your past girlfriends and attempted trysts she was exactly your type. According to what I've seen, Dr. Dominguez has flattering body proportions, and I'm given to understand that her decidedly Latina heritage is something of a plus as well. And she's a doctor, I'm sure you'd have a lot to talk about."

I glared at him. "She's an idiot," I said. "I didn't remember her because I met her once during her performance evaluation before Sarah hired her and she did not impress me at all. She's a second-rate doctor at best, and I just don't say that about my colleagues. So no, I don't actually think we'd have _anything_ to talk about."

"And for your information, people's taste in_ trysts,_" I spat, "change, you know." I felt rather than saw Sherlock whip his head around to look at me. Oops… that wasn't supposed to have been said… I could feel my face flushing a thousand shades of crimson. I knew Sherlock was going to be deducing the hell out of this.

However, he didn't say a word. He merely stared at me for a few moments before turning his attention back to the crowd. I didn't have time to analyse his reaction because at that moment I saw him stiffen and reach up to tap his fingers on the table, catching my attention. He nodded across the way and I saw a tall, thin man with a shaved head slipping into the club's entrance and towards the dance floor. Sherlock stood and I joined him.

The game was on.

* * *

**A/N: I don't know about the rest of the civilised world, but for people of non-Latino heritage in the United States, Cinco de Mayo is just another excuse for people to drink a lot of tequila and eat insane amounts of food without anyone judging them (like St. Patrick's Day or Independence Day). This chapter is a little crack-ish and I surely mean no disrespect to ANYONE from ANYWHERE. I live in Arizona and am culturally aware and all that so... please take no offense in this. I just... imagined John with the mustache and then it all sort of fell apart from there. **


	6. Step 5: Devotion

Step Five: Devotion

**Told from Lestrade's POV and then John's POV**

I've seen a lot of very horrid things during my term as Detective Inspector in my division at Scotland Yard. I've seen broken corpses, bruised corpses, exsanguinated corpses, frozen corpses, burned corpses, bloody corpses, mutilated corpses…you get the picture. We deal with a lot of death and destruction and the cases built around dead bodies are never pleasant. No matter how many times you've seen a crime scene with blood pooled or splashed or dripped here and there…you're never ready for it. No matter how professionally you handle yourself at the scene or with the families or witnesses, you always go home to an extra-large shot of alcohol because you cannot fathom how humans can destroy each other like that.

I've seen a lot of terrible things…some of them I remember quite clearly. Some of them are faded or have disappeared from my memory. But I will never forget the look on John Watson's face when Sherlock nearly got himself thrown off a roof for the second time…and this time there was no hocus-pocus behind it.

We'd been tracking a serial killer, which was Sherlock's favourite kind of case. Some might think this as being very bizarre and very not decent, but both John and I knew that Sherlock was merely interested in the patterns and the reasoning. For not being a very social creature himself, Sherlock was highly involved with the sociological aspects behind the crimes in addition to the forensics.

Anyway, we'd been tracking this serial killer and it ended up with Sherlock sprinting off after the killer (a woman this time) and leaving me, John, and the rest of my team in the dust. As usual. We followed her as she twisted through alleyways and eventually ended up scaling a fence and using it to leap on to a fire escape and up to the roof of a building. Sherlock followed her easily, scampering up behind her like a cat up a tree, leaving John and I behind. Looking up, I knew John wouldn't be tall enough to reach up for the fire escape and I… well, I was getting a little older, you know?

When John and I heard the gunshot, we dashed off towards the front of the building and drew our eyes towards the top. It wasn't a terrifically tall building, but a fall from the top would definitely kill a man or render him a vegetable for the rest of his life. Sherlock was standing near the edge, his body facing the woman and hers facing him. They were staring at each other, but I didn't see a gun and they were both still standing. I gritted my teeth and waited, ordering my deputies to enter the building from the side entrance and wait for my signal.

When the woman launched herself at Sherlock, I heard John's stifled cry a second after and the pure fear in the sound made me turn my head to look at him. I had only ever seen John so emotive with his face once before, and it was right before Sherlock's fake funeral. I'd gone to talk to him before the service and he was having a quiet breakdown. The look of grief on his face was overwhelming and I felt his pain echo deeply with my own. After that, he'd steeled himself for the funeral and the burial and everything that came after. And now, as he watched Sherlock come under attack on the top of that building, I saw that he was reliving those moments when he watched Sherlock fall and everything that came after. His mouth was opened slightly and his lips were trembling. His chest was heaving and his hands were half-stretched out in front as if he wanted to reach up and pull them apart. His pearly blue eyes were stretched with fear and rage and guilt and anger and loss.

Movement drew my eyes back to the roof. The two people upon it were grappling with each other like some sort of bizarre wrestling match. I watched Sherlock do something clever with his torso and the weight shifted momentarily… and the woman was suddenly falling from the building with an ear-shattering cry. Both John and I turned away before she hit the pavement, but our eyes were drawn up again as we watched Sherlock press a hand to his side and then collapse.

John and I were sprinting before a second had passed.

00000000000000

The fifth step in my plan for seducing Sherlock Holmes was devotion, and by devotion, I meant showing him that I cared about his well-being in some manner. This was not as easy to carry out, mostly because I was still a little uncertain about my own terms for this step (I mean really, it wasn't as if I didn't show Sherlock I was devoted to him _every damn day_…). But I figured maybe I would make him a good meal (hah) or take him out for a coffee (hah). And then I realised that maybe I could show him how devoted I was capable of being by nursing him back to health after he got hurt on a case.

I mean, it happened _a lot_. One or both of us usually ended up with some sort of minor scraping or bruising with every case we encountered. Occasionally there'd be some damaged ribs or maybe something requiring stitches or an ice pack. Every once in a rare while, we'd end up doing something that would get one of us sent to the hospital (which we both hated). I always took care of Sherlock when he got hurt and he reciprocated for me in the best way he knew how. I just figured the next time it happened, I would… vary my approach to the whole Doctor Watson thing (because I am a hopeless romantic and a deviant, what can I say?).

However… it was not supposed to go like this.

Seeing Sherlock on that roof had made me relive every single tortuous moment of his fall from the roof of St. Bart's and every day of sorrow that followed after. When the woman had jumped on him and was attempting to wrestle him (I suppose that's what she was trying to do), I had forgotten how to breathe. I knew Lestrade was watching me, but I didn't care. I only had eyes for the consulting detective. When he shifted his weight in a manner that launched the woman to the ground, I thought it was over. But then he'd collapsed with a hand pressed to his side.

Turns out, the gunshot we'd heard in the alley had been the woman shooting Sherlock.

She'd missed almost everything of importance, Sherlock said she'd been shaking too much to maintain a steady aim and wasn't that just a marvellously casual thing of him to say. The bullet had grazed through the skin by his ribs. The force had been enough to cause the ribs by the entry wound to fracture, but they were clean breaks that would heal in a relatively short amount of time. He'd lost enough blood to require a single transfusion and he'd been passed out for about three hours now. I knew he'd be tetchy when he came to, so I'd already organised his discharge papers. Now, we were just waiting.

Both Lestrade and Mycroft had been around to check up on him. This was hardly the most life-threatening thing he'd ever been involved in, but it was nice to see that they still cared. I'd phoned Mrs. Hudson and told her what had happened. She'd set immediately to fretting and promised to change the sheets on his bed and leave us some food in the fridge. But just this once, you know.

I'd taken up a position on the left hand side of Sherlock's bed like a sentinel. They had taken off all of his monitors and really, the man was just sleeping now. I had his left hand clasped in between both of mine and I'd thrown up a dozen silent prayers to gods neither Sherlock nor I believed in. I wasn't sure if there was a God or not, but if there was… he or she definitely had an eye out for Sherlock Holmes. By all rights, the bloody git should be deader than a doornail…such an impossible man.

I'd let some of my own exhaustion settle into my bones and I was resting my cheek against the rough blankets by our joined hands. I'd only had my eyes closed for a few minutes when I felt something squeeze my fingers and more fingers thread their way into my hair. I stayed there for a few selfish moments, delighting in the feel of those long fingers against my scalp. When I pulled away and sat up, Sherlock was still blinking blearily against the lighting in the room. His gaze took in the room, the bed, the silent monitors, the white bandages against his naked chest, and finally our clasped hands.

"What're we doing here?" he asked, his normally svelte baritone gone gravelly. He coughed and cleared his throat, trying again. "What are we doing here, John?"

I used my free hand to ever-so-gently touch the bandages on his side. "You got shot, you great idiot."

He frowned for a moment and then inhaled deeply as the memory came back. "Ah. That didn't go exactly as I had planned, if I am remembering correctly."

I snorted and replied, "Yeah, I'd say not. You got shot."

He waved his hand around impatiently. "Not important."

A cloud of red passed in my vision. "Not important?" I spat at him. He frowned at me and I frowned right back.

"No, John," he said. "Catching the killer was the important thing."

"Sherlock." I fixed him with my best Captain Watson face. "For someone who is so incredibly brilliant, you are also incredibly thick, you know that? Jesus, Sherlock when you were out on that roof…I…" I paused, trying to get my voice under control as it began to fray with emotion. "Sherlock…you were out on that roof and all I could see was you on the top of Bart's again. And when that woman…when she jumped on you, I thought it was going to happen all over again. And this time, you wouldn't come back to me."

Sherlock's lips thinned but his face softened and he squeezed my hand again. "I am sorry that you had to relive that, John, truly I am. But you know… you know how I get when I'm on a case, especially when the chase gets involved."

I snorted again. "Yeah. You turn into an impulsive, brilliant git."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'd tell you that it won't happen again, but…"

"But we both know it will," I finished for him. "Will you just… will you just promise me that next time you will take 2 seconds and think before you go barrelling off after some psychotic serial killer, please? Or at least think before you follow them onto a rooftop and…wrestle them. I can't…" I stopped and cleared my throat. Sherlock looked at me expectantly, so I rolled my eyes and pushed ahead. "I can't lose you again, Sherlock. I just can't."

He seemed to be a little unprepared for that statement, so I was rewarded with a slow blink of surprise. Before he could analyse it any further, I jumped in again with questions.

"So how exactly did you…throw her off?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I have been trained in bartitsu, John. It's an old English-Japanese martial art that hinges on disturbing the balance of weight between you and your opponent. I simply managed to use her own weight against her."

"I'll say. You threw her off a building."

I wasn't expecting to see Sherlock wince at that. "What?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes and waited a few minutes before he answered. "John… I know a thousand ways to kill a man. You don't…do what I do without coming to some sort of understanding about how to take a life." He paused and squeezed my hand a little tighter. "That does not mean that I enjoy it. I wasn't attempting to throw her off the building, I was just trying to subdue her."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as I processed what he'd just said. It was a very insightful admission for Sherlock and I appreciated it.

"Can we go home now?" he muttered.

"Sure," I replied. "I've already processed your discharge papers. Just let me get your shirt and we'll go." I released his hand and stood to go and find his clothing. However, before I could move, I felt his thin fingers close around my wrist.

"Thank you, John," he whispered. They were three very simple words, but they were laced with so much more. Thank you for staying. Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.

This seduction process was working in ways I hadn't even begun to anticipate.

Oh, you're a very bad man, John Watson. A very bad man.

* * *

**A/N: A note of interest: for those of you who read the ACD canon, you might recognise the martial art that Sherlock used to throw the serial killer off the roof. In The Adventure of the Empty House, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote that Sherlock had used a Japanese wrestling technique called _baritsu_ to throw Moriarty off the cliff. After doing some research, (and by research I mean Wikipedia), we find that ACD had misspelled it and that it was actually a form of self-defence accredited to an Englishman. The martial art of _bartitsu_ is a real thing. It was started by a British engineer name Edward Barton-Wright, who had come back to England after spending three years in Japan with a new fighting style that he called bartitsu. The name is actually an amalgamation of his last name and 'jujitsu'. **

**(Honestly...go to Wikipedia and read up on this stuff. Learning is fun!)  
**


	7. Interlude: Indignation

**I cannot tell you how much your positive support means to me. 30 followers and over 1300 viewers... in the words of a fangirl, "I can't even..." **

**Thank you so much for you support. :) Special special thanks go to WL Chastain, Raeya, Serenityofthematrix, and Guest for your kind reviews and suggestions. **

**And because you've been so gracious to me... I give you...(drumroll...)**

**This. *inches away* don't hate me**

* * *

Interlude: Indignation

**Told from Sherlock's POV**

I felt the simmering rage begin somewhere behind my navel and pipe out into my veins like a sinuous river of emotional lava. I tore my fingers through my hair in frustration and kicked at a piece of trash where it lay in the street. We'd been so close. So close! I'd almost had my hands around the man I'd been chasing for months and then the oh-so noble John Watson had to waltz in and absolutely destroy everything. I would never understand why the man couldn't just follow my directions!

Ah, there he is, finally caught up with me. I felt my blood boil even hotter when the witness he was supposed to be watching didn't show up with him. Fantastic. What has he done now?

"Sherlock, we—'''

"Where is the witness?" I snarled.

He was gasping for air and he very clearly had a painful stitch in his side, but I didn't care about that at the moment. John was my best friend and my partner but right now, he'd fucked up beyond compare and I wasn't just going to melt into his arms like a schoolgirl because he had a little cramp in his side.

His icy blue eyes met mine for a split second before he tore them away. I saw many things cross his face…shame, guilt, fear, anger. He ran a hand through his hair and said "I don't know, Sherlock. She was with me, and then I went ahead to look for you…she was right behind me, I swear. Someone must have come from behind and snatched her. I'm sorry, she was right behind me…I thought…I thought she was right there."

In order to keep myself from exploding, I began to recite radioactive elements and their atomic numbers and masses. He'd not only spoiled my surprise attack, but he'd also lost the witness. Lost. The. Witness.

He was speaking again. "Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened, there was all that noise, and then you ran off and I… I don't know what happened. Please, Sherlock… just look at me, dammit. Just look at me will you?"

I looked at him and I felt a very childish jump of satisfaction in my gut when I saw him flinch away from my gaze. Oh no, John Watson. You wanted me to look at you so you are going to look at me. I stepped over to him and grasped his chin in my fingers, forcing his face up to mine.

"Look at me, John," I growled, not looking away from the blue eyes that were now shining with something that might have been fear. "Do you have any idea how much this has cost me?"

He thrust his chin away from my hand, his face flushing red in shame. He began to speak again but I put my hand up to stop him. I kept my voice low and laced with all the venom I could muster. "I have spent four months chasing this lunatic. And on the night that I get my first opportunity to strike back at him, it all falls to pieces."

"Sherlock, it was an acciden—'''

I stopped him again by nearly shoving my palm in his face. "It doesn't matter. I will not get another opportunity like this. He will bury himself deeper within his web of accomplices and I may not get a chance to stop him before he kills again."

"Sherlock—'''

"And then," I overrode, "not only do I lose out on the opportunity to catch a heinous criminal, but then you come around and tell me that you have lost the only witness we have. For all we know, she's already dead. This has been a complete and utter failure and it is all. your. fault."

That's when John abandoned all of his contriteness. His face blazed in anger and indignation and there was no trace of the gentle Dr. Watson in his voice.

"Excuse me?!" he roared. "MY fault? You think this is all _my_ fault? You… you don't even know what happened, Sherlock, and you want to know why that is? You took off, like you always do, and you left me and Etta alone. So while you were off gallivanting about like some idiotic knight on a quest, you didn't happen to catch the part where Etta was the one that went off and ended up starting up that display of electric pianos. Ergo, it was an accident, and I didn't actually have anything to do with it! And! I was trying to make sure you didn't get shot, AGAIN. Or maybe you've forgotten that little part, you know, where you almost got shot AGAIN."

"Irrelevant, John! We needed that witness; she was a crucial part in building our case!"

"Her name is Etta, Sherlock, try to have—'''

"Maybe if you'd have been watching _**Etta**_ a little more closely, she wouldn't have been able to wander off!"

"She's 10 years old, Sherlock! They wander off! I didn't see you around helping me watch her! And furthermore, I wasn't the one that suggested she come with us."

"Neither was I! You were there, John, she followed us! And in case you forgot, I was trying to catch a murderer."

"It doesn't matter! She followed us, but you left us behind, Sherlock! She was not my sole responsibility!"

"Well, I'm sure her parents will be thrilled to hear that when we end up delivering her body to them when all this is over because she was not John Watson's sole responsibility."

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I saw John's features still and his shoulders drooped. I mentally kicked myself and kneaded the bridge of my nose with my fingers. Even I was not as blind to sentiment as to realise that my words were harsh. Damn it all.

"John… I didn't—'''

"Yes you did," he whispered. The pain in his tone bit deep into my psyche and I forced myself to look at him. John's delicately lined face was ashen and the lively spark that was in his eyes had dulled and faded. His lips were pressed into a thin line and his hands were clenched into fists. His voice was thick with emotion that he was working very hard to suppress. "You never say anything that you don't mean, Sherlock. But Molly was right, wasn't she? Sometimes you say the most horrid things..."

"John…"

"Shut up, Sherlock. You're right, aren't you? You're always right…it was my fault. She was my responsibility and I fucked it up, didn't I? Well, I guess that's just what I do, isn't it? Good old Doctor Watson, the bumbling fool following Sherlock Holmes hoping for scraps or a pat on the head. Cause I can't compete with the massive intellect of the great Sherlock Holmes."

I felt something inside my chest cavity twang painfully as John turned and began to walk away. "John…" I called after him.

He turned around. "I believed in you, Sherlock. I always have…even when no one else did, I still believed in you." He thrust his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged his shoulders. "Pity you can't extend me the same courtesy." And with that, he turned and walked away into the night.

00000000000

John wasn't in the flat when I returned to it about an hour after our confrontation. I'd spent that hour going over the scene with a fine-tooth comb, looking for any trace evidence. When I'd turned up a few interesting specimens, I'd taken a cab back to Baker Street and gotten to work analysing the evidence. However, I was finding that it was hard to keep my thoughts from drifting back to John and our argument.

It's not like I was expecting to find John at home, you know. He'd be angry about what I had said for…weeks for all I knew. This is why I never liked emotions to get in the way of my work. If you led with your emotions, there was always the chance that something would be said that would be misconstrued. Tonight was exhibit A. I'd become very upset and I'd led with my emotions and said something…rash… and John had led with his and read into it in a way he wasn't supposed to. There were perfectly viable reasons for us to be cross with one another at the moment.

Of course I was angry… no matter how much I didn't want emotions to rampage through my work, I couldn't help it. I'd left the little girl with him because I'd assumed she'd be safer with him. John was always safer than I was in the long run. I'd known that the killer and his accomplices were going to be in the back room of the music shop and I'd gone in ahead to cut them off at the pass. I'd deliberately left Lestrade and his team out of this until the last minute because I knew surprise was a necessary element for the success of the plan and they were about as delicate as a German jazz band.

The time to strike was at hand when a phenomenally loud sound had ripped through the store and through the crack of the door I could see the men in the back stiffen and then beat a hasty retreat. One of them must have doubled back around and grabbed the little girl from the shop without John noticing. Honestly…the man was too bloody concerned with chasing after my coattails and now it had cost me my killer, his accomplices, and a witness who was just an innocent little girl.

I knew, of course. I knew why John was so anxious to keep me in his sights. I've known for quite a while now. At first, I thought the deduction about my violinist's calluses and the help with my experiments and the symphony tickets were just…John being John. John was at his core a very generous and compassionate human being. The man was my best friend and my partner in crime (quite literally, sometimes). But because I am a consulting detective and blessed with very strong observational skills, I'm also very suspicious. Because of my history (and a very bad habit of playing practical jokes), I get very suspicious when people are nice to me. So naturally, I began to suspect that John was up to something more than just…being nice to a friend.

I knew he was testing me…experimenting on me in what I can only assume were seduction techniques. I'd dismissed it at the start because it all seemed so very absurd. Why would John want to seduce me? He'd blatantly defended his heterosexuality and maintained a stream of baffling girlfriends as if he were desperate to prove himself. Furthermore, he seemed to understand my unenthusiastic position on relationships and the idea of love and all that.

But as time went on, my data became more telling and for some inexplicable reason, I found myself drawn into the need to investigate further instead of just calling him out and stopping the ridiculous charade. There were little things that passed between us that made me curious… small, innocent touches, some deliberate and some accidental. There were cups of tea made and dinners placed before me (although those were circumstantial because John was always trying to make sure I ate). I had a mountain of evidence in front of me, yet nothing that would suggest a motive. I decided to run my own test when Marina Hanson brought me the magnifying glass. I'd snuggled (dear god isn't that an awful word?) up to John and told him about the case and my not-aversion to children. He'd taken it in stride and even I have to admit that it felt very…safe. Safe and comfortable. It'd taken me several weeks to wrestle with that particular sentiment, but…isn't acceptance the first step towards recovery?

But that was still something mates did, right? Maybe not normal, male mates…but we were far from normal and I think our particular method of living had more inclinations towards mutual aid and comfort. I was not so juvenile as to believe that at times adult men did not find comfort in each other, and I knew John would not believe that either. Even so, I had assumed that despite John's clear attraction to me (I hadn't not noticed the way his pupils would dilate if I moved too close or the way his breath would hitch ever so slightly if I touched him and he wasn't prepared for it), he would continue to deny it. His attempts to 'seduce' me…it had to just be an elaborate experiment. It was really clever of him, actually…probably retaliation for that time I had accidentally laced the mushrooms in our fridge with psychotropic drugs and then he'd put them in his dinner… he had not been very happy with me after that (after he'd come down off the high, of course).

So when the classically attractive female doctor approached him during our undercover operation at the Cinco de Mayo party, I figured John would give in to her clearly feminine wiles. I was thoroughly surprised when he not only deviated from his norm, but also deliberately lied to her. And then there had been that not so cryptic statement about people's tastes changing. I'd almost bit my tongue in half after that in an attempt to not bring up John's impending sexuality crisis in the middle of a case. It made me wonder—

I was interrupted in the midst of my thoughts when Mrs. Hudson knocked and entered the living room.

"Sherlock," she said, "a courier just delivered this for you."

She handed me a small package, which I accepted with rising curiosity. I was working away the tape with my pocket knife when Mrs. Hudson asked, "Where's John got to this evening?"

I didn't answer her. I couldn't answer her. When I'd opened the package, I had found three items inside. First, John's dog tags. There was a small crimson stain on them that made my stomach churn. Second, a small golden chain that held a small star and the letter E. This belonged to Etta, I had seen her wearing it earlier. Third, there was small note printed in bold black ink on white paper. It said only, "Looking forward to meeting you."


	8. Interlude: Absolution

**In the immortal words of my friend Kari... "It's just good storytelling. LOTR wouldn't have been half as good if it had just been 'Frodo got the ring, skipped his happy ass to Mordor and threw it in'... it's called character development and conflict!" **

**Well...obviously. One does not simply skip one's happy ass to Mordor. **

**And one does not simply seduce Sherlock Holmes without astronomical levels of angst. **

**Without further ado... **

**Angst. **

* * *

Interlude: Absolution

**Told from John's POV and then Sherlock's POV**

The back of my head throbbed with pain in time with my heartbeat. I could hear the dull lub-lubbing sound echoing inside my skull and it was both irritating and comforting. It was good to know that my heart was still beating, at least. I could see a light shining even from behind my closed eyelids, but I didn't want to open them just yet. I took a moment to blindly assess myself. Besides my aching head, I could feel that my bottom lip was split and I'd at least sprained a wrist. My hands were tied together with copious amounts of thin, rough rope that seemed to be crusted with something. My legs were unbound and uninjured and everything else seemed to be intact. Considering some of the situations I've found myself in during Afghanistan and my time with Sherlock…this was looking pretty optimistic. That is… it was until I heard a small, feminine whimper echo beside me.

I wrenched open my eyes and looked around the room. It was small and smelled like fish. The floor was made from degraded wood planks and a single bare bulb hung from the ceiling. I was on the floor and leaning against one of the walls. I looked to my right and saw the source of the whimpering. My heart dropped into my stomach. _Etta_…

The girl was tied just as I was, with her hands roughly bound with rope and her legs unbound. She was laying on her side and I could see from my angle that she seemed to be okay except for a small cut on her cheek and a purplish bruise on her forearm. Her eyes were still closed but I could see the tearstains on her face.

"Etta," I called softly. "Etta, wake up for me please? It's Doctor Watson, Etta, I'm here with you."

The girl blinked open her green eyes and I heard her whimper again. I scooted closer to her so that she could hear the movement. She started violently and wrenched herself into a sitting position, her eyes turning towards me in a glance that was both fearful and full of courage. When recognition set in, I saw her eyes fill with tears and she started to cry again.

"Oh Doctor Watson," she cried. She collapsed into my shoulder and withdrew into her silent tears. I rested my chin on the top of her head since I could do nothing else.

After a few minutes, I nudged her gently with my chin, making her lean back. The doctor part of me was kicking in and I needed to make sure she wasn't hurt.

"Etta, can you tell me if you're hurt anywhere other than your cheek and your arm?" I watched her face screw up slightly as she turned her attention inward and she focused on diagnosing herself. She only winced once.

"My left index finger hurts when I try to move it," she said.

"Okay, try not to move it anymore, alright? Can you spin yourself around so I can look at it?" She nodded her head and turned so that her bound hands were presented to me. She adjusted her fingers the best that she could, and I could see that the digit was bent slightly and was an ugly red-purple colour. It had to be a lot more painful than she was letting on.

"Alright, Etta, thank you," I said. She turned back around and rest up against the wall with me. "It looks like you might have broken it," I said, "so try not to move it, okay?"

She nodded and leaned her head back against the wall. "Doctor Watson?"

"Hmm?"

"Are we going to die?"

I swallowed painfully. In my gut I knew that there was a very good chance that one or both of us would die. We'd presumably been taken by the homicidal maniac that Sherlock had been chasing and you don't earn a reputation as a homicidal maniac without committing more than a few homicides. More so, Etta had been a witness and I was helping the detective who was tracking this man down. There was definitely a good chance that we were going to die. Etta was smart and very brave, but… I couldn't just tell her that there was a good chance she was going to die.

"No, Etta," I found myself saying. "We're not going to die."

She sniffled and she somehow managed to make it sound like she didn't believe me. "Are you sure?" she asked.

I cleared my throat. "No, Etta," I whispered. "I'm not sure."

She was silent for a while before she asked, "Is Mr. Holmes going to find us?"

My mind drifted back to the fight we'd had before I had walked away and gotten myself beaten and abducted for my trouble. It had been a stupid argument from both of our ends. Sherlock could be cruel, but he was never wholly vicious, not to me anyway. The things he'd said had left me feeling so angry and so dejected. I knew he'd instantly known that he'd said the wrong thing and he'd looked as apologetic as a Holmes could look. I'd walked away from him knowing that sooner or later, one of us would cave and apologise first and the other would follow shortly after. He'd said horrible things, sure, and we'd both been angry, but I knew in the very core of my being that he would stop at nothing to find me and Etta and get us both out safely.

"Yes," I answered. "I know he will, Etta. I know he will."

00000000000

I splashed water from the tap on my face and felt the nerve endings contract at the touch of the cold liquid. I took the towel from the rack and dried my skin, catching a glimpse of my face in the mirror above the sink. In simple words, I looked like a corpse, which was ironic considering that I spent an atypical amount of time around corpses and I had pretended to be one myself before. My skin was normally pale, but now it was just ashen and drained. The circles under my eyes were almost indigo in colour and after 24 hours my eyes had become slightly bloodshot.

24 hours. It had been 24 hours and I hadn't been able to find a single clue as to John's and Etta's whereabouts. 24 hours since the mystery courier had dropped off the package with John's dog tags and Etta's necklace and the ominous note. 24 hours and I had nothing to go on. It was always frustrating to have nothing when I was in the middle of a case…but now…oh now, it was absolutely unbearable. John. They'd taken John, my… my John. I felt the urgent press of my emotions forcing their way through my higher brain functions. I tried with all my might to supress them… I mean for god's sake it was just a chemical reaction. I'd supressed enough of my body's primal urges in the past 30-odd years, there's absolutely no reason I couldn't do it now.

Except…there might be. John had been abducted. _Abducted_. Right from under my nose too, and the bastards probably had the little girl as well. John had been taken from me before… there was Moriarty and the pool… and once on a case in Ipswich, but in both cases I had been unaware that John had been taken until he'd been trotted out in front of me as a taunt. Now, I was fully aware that John had been taken and I knew that there would be no presentation later in which I'd be able to do something clever in order to get John out. Now, he'd been taken from me and I couldn't even—

No. Stop. This isn't helping at all. I pushed back all the excess emotional baggage and concentrated solely on the facts that I had at my disposal. I could always take the time after John and Etta were safe to sort through my worrisome sentimental issues. I put the towel back and stalked into the living room. I picked up my violin and began to play, but I quickly realised that I'd subconsciously begun to play John's favourite lullaby. No…that wouldn't do. I put the violin down and began to pace, allowing the repetitive motion to occupy my corporeal self, whilst I retired to the depths of my mind-palace.

I was interrupted by someone banging the front door and then by hurried footsteps on the stair. Judging by the weight and the length of the stride…

"Do come in Lestrade, and please, if you have something of interest concerning John's abduction, spit it out. If you don't, please turn around and leave."

I could feel the man pause behind me, but I didn't turn around to face him yet. I heard a distinct rustle of papers and then he cleared his throat. He was no doubt a little taken aback that I had used so many 'pleases' in one sentence when I was clearly so agitated.

"You don't have anything, then?" he asked in a very low voice.

I turned around very slowly, fixing the brainless detective inspector with a glare. "Get out," I spat, not wanting to waste time—John's time—with this.

"But—'''

"I NEED DATA!" I yelled. "I CANNOT MAKE BRICKS WITHOUT CLAY, LESTRADE."

Lestrade was staring me down when my phone pinged. I snatched it from the coffee table and read the message.

_Analysis finished. John's blood and…fish oil. Tuna, to be precise. -Molly _

"Lestrade," I muttered. "I'm going to need all the CCTV footage you can find of the docks on the Thames between Downing Street and Kensington Street."

"What? Why?"

Before I could reply, my phone pinged again.

_No need. Start with the docks near Downing Street and aim south. –Mycroft_

_Footage leads me to believe John taken there. –Mycroft _

_Go. _

"Quickly, Lestrade," I said, snatching my coat and heading out the door.

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked. I could hear him on my heels, bless the man for not being an idiot right now.

"The docks on Downing Street," I said. And to forestall his questions, I added, "I'll explain on the way."

0000000000000

"Sherlock Holmes…we meet at last."

I spat blood out of my mouth and twisted my arms experimentally in the grip of my captor, but the hulking man was apparently carved from stone. He continued to hold me in a vice-like grip that would most definitely bruise, if I didn't actually fracture anything. He kicked the backs of my knees-hard- a motion that sent me sprawling unceremoniously to the hard wooden dock beneath my feet. I felt something in my shoulder pop disconcertingly as the rogue behind me maintained his grip on my arms.

The man in front of me smiled. He looked like he should be in front of a primary school classroom leading children through their alphabet and teaching them to do sums…not murdering innocents and abducting doctors and 10 year old girls. He had thinning blond hair and even teeth that were quirked into a perfectly handsome if not psychopathic smile.

"I'd wondered when I would be able to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes," the man said. "It seems that you've been following my work for several months now, and I have to admit…I'm rather flattered. Are you impressed by my work, Mr. Holmes?"

I spat instead of replying.

His smile remained on his face but I could see something behind his eyes tighten. He clasped his hands behind him and began to pace a little on his end of the dock. "I must confess…I'm a little disappointed in you, Sherlock. They said you were brilliant… I had assumed that with brilliance came eloquence. But I guess…maybe I'd hoped for too much. It did take you over 24 hours to find your precious doctor and the little girl."

"How positively droll," I whined in a low voice through my gritted teeth. "I didn't realise you were expecting me. Your invitation wasn't exactly precise and I'm afraid I got a little lost on the way over."

This seemed to make the madman exceedingly happy, because he clapped his hands a few times while giggling loudly. "Well, that's unfortunate, Sherlock! But it's okay now. You're here, so the party can begin. And I have just the game for us to play!"

He snapped his fingers and I heard movement from behind us. Two of the man's other henchmen passed me by and I could see that they were leading John and the little girl. Their hands were bound behind their backs and their mouths had been taped shut. They both looked miserable, but the little girl was close to passing out and I knew John could tell. His eyes kept flicking to her and if she stopped he would hum loudly or nudge her gently. When they passed me, he looked at me with wide eyes that shone with a mix of open fear, gratitude, longing, and anger. I blinked when he was shoved out of my vision and they were both prodded down to stand next to the murderer.

The henchmen spun their respective victims around so that everyone was facing me and my thug. Guns appeared in the hands of the other men and each of those guns was placed at the temples of John and Etta. John's eyes only flashed once in recognition and Etta remarkably stayed silent, even though I could see a tear march down her face. The murderer stepped in between the two of them and slightly out front, as if he were the host of a game show.

"So, Sherlock," he said. "Here before you we have two volunteers from the audience. This is my favourite part of the game, you know. You see, this is the part where you get to choose! Choices are always so much fun, don't you think?"

A wide grin split his sadistic face and he threw his arms out wide to gesture to the two people behind him. "It's Sherlock's choice tonight! One of these lovely people will get to go home with you tonight, no questions asked. The other one… well… they get an all-expense paid vacation to the bottom of the Thames for the rest of their life."

Sherlock's heart dropped into his toes as he watched the simultaneous reactions play on John and Etta's face.

Etta's ten-year old face read; _please pick me please pick me please pick…oh, Mr. Holmes…it's Doctor Watson, I'm so sorry, please pick me I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I don't want to die Mr. Holmes please please _

John's softly lined face read; _Sherlock she's ten take her with you please don't do anything foolish I'm so sorry I'm so sorry but please take Etta she's just a little girl this is me watching over her please Sherlock I'm so grateful for you this is my absolution please take Etta_

I did not know what my own face read to the assembled crowd in front of me.

But inside…I was screaming.

* * *

***cue the suspenseful orchestra music. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of "your author is a gigantic prick for leaving this cliffhanger"**


	9. Step 6: Confession

**Ahoy, me mateys! I am so sorry for leaving you hanging there. I had to review these last two chapters a billion times to make sure that I got it just right... Still not sure that they're exactly the way they should be...but why don't you tell me? I've read this thing until my eyes bled. **

**Again, thank you to everyone who has been reading along, especially to those of you who've been following and favouriting and leaving awesome reviews (I'd be lying if I said I didn't refresh my email every half an hour just to check and see if there was anything new...). You make me stronger. :) Love and light.**

* * *

Step Six: Confession

**Told from Sherlock's POV and then John's POV**

I stared into John's eyes with all the potency of spirit that I possessed in my shrivelled soul and willed him to read my thoughts. He stared back at me with the same glittering hardness I'd seen in his eyes that night at the pool…our silent pact and his silent accord. I knew the malicious man watching us wouldn't let us take forever.

**John.**

_Sherlock._

**John, please, you don't have to—**

_You got any better ideas?_

**Not at the moment…**

_We have to do this._

**But John…**

_She's ten. _

**I know.**

_She's got her whole life. _

**But what about you?**

_Sherlock…_

…

_Please. Do this for me._

**John… I—**

_Do this. For me. _

I stared at him as I watched him blink out I*M*S*O*R*R*Y in Morse code. I released a long breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. We stared at each other for another few seconds and for a moment it seemed as though time slowed down and the world disappeared. This was how it ended then. No plans, no tricks, no smoke or mirrors. Just a choice. I'd never felt so helpless and it made my insides coil with rage and fear. I saw the forgiveness and the sheer…love printed on John Watson's face and it solidly confirmed the past few months in my brain. This was his confession. For some…unfathomable reason, this man _loved_ me and now he was going to die because of my mistakes. And he was still the apologetic one… solid, loyal John, right up to the very end. I felt a heavy weight press in the centre of my chest as I watched his face crinkle into a smile underneath the tape. I heaved a breath and tore my eyes away from John. I stared up to the murderous man.

"Well?" he questioned.

The two names tumbled on my tongue like dice. I could feel the name that wanted to slip out like the familiar taste of my favourite tea or the lingering taste of tobacco. It was warm and soft and familiar and I wanted that to be the name that I uttered in this moment. But with one final glance towards the man to whom this name belonged, I swallowed it and felt it nestle in my insides like hot chocolate on Christmas morning.

"Etta," I growled. I watched the little girl's face melt with relief and sadness. John's eyes slid shut in finality and maybe just a touch of pride.

The man was laughing. "So noble of you, Sherlock, to choose the little girl. I thought for sure you would have—'''

The man's words were cut off suddenly as we all heard a delayed whizzing sound. John and I flinched out of recognition and ducked our heads. I peeked upwards towards the man and saw a round, red flower blossoming in the middle of his forehead, his eyes and mouth open in shock and surprise. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, his head falling just a few inches short of my knees.

I watched all the two henchmen opposite me tighten their grips on their guns. The one holding me moved slightly as if he was motioning to the two others with his head and upper body. I saw John's features relax in relief and I watched the two thugs holding them slowly raise their hands in the air, releasing John and Etta. The man holding me also loosened his grip and backed away slowly.

In the back of my mind, I heard Lestrade and the Met police fill the scene with their lights and their shouts, but I saw nothing except the two people opposite me. I pulled a pocket knife from my coat, wincing as my arms screamed in protest but moving forward nonetheless. I stepped forward and sliced carefully through Etta's ropes, leaving her to remove the tape from her mouth. I moved over to cut John's hands free and almost sliced myself as my hands began to tremble.

I reached up to pull the tape off John's mouth, but I felt his hands stop me. I put my hands down and watched him slowly peel the sticky tape off his face, blinking away the tears of pain as he did so. When it was finally off, he heaved a couple of deep breaths in through his mouth.

"Etta?" he called, his voice rough and dry. The little girl appeared at his side and she wrapped her thin arms around his waist and pressed her face into his stomach. John returned her embrace and made soothing motions by running his hand over her messy brown hair. He looked at me and a million things passed between us in that one look. I stepped closer to him, but before I could say or do anything, I saw Etta release John and turn her embrace to me. I kneeled for her so that she could avoid pressing her face into my groin, seeing as I was taller than John. She wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed tight.

"Thank you," she whispered.

I simply nodded, unable and unwilling to use my voice or express my thoughts at the moment. I wondered for a moment as to whether I would have gone on to resent this girl had the killer been able to go through with his plan. In the end, I'd chosen this girl over John and she knew it and John knew it. Over the girl's head, I stared into John's face and he stared back into mine. This time, there was no quasi-telepathic communication that needed to take place. No words could have described this moment…John was here with me, alive and whole and not at the bottom of the Thames. It made my heart swell with sentiment and for once, I didn't give a damn. Regardless of where our relationship ended up…John was still mine and I was still his and that would never change.

I was taken out of my reverie when I felt Etta pull back from me. I reached up to brush some tears away from her eyes and she let me. When I dropped my hands, she frowned at me and then punched my arm quite forcefully for a spindly little girl of only 10 years. John's eyebrows shot up and his mouth opened in a shocked smile. I rubbed my arm and shot the little girl a look.

Etta crossed her arms and looked me in the eye with stunning tenacity for a 10-year old. "What took you so long?" she asked crossly.

My mouth dropped open in unadulterated astonishment and I heard John give a hearty chuckle. He placed a hand on the girl's shoulder and squeezed it with affection. I just continued to stare at them.

"Consulting detective indeed," Etta huffed under her breath.

I'm not sure that I've ever heard John laugh so much.

000000000000

When I'd been able to stop laughing about Etta's perfect quips, Sherlock had ushered us over to the ambulance. The medics insisted on taking us all to the hospital, but Sherlock and I quickly waved that off. I did make sure that they bundled Etta up and started her on an IV to help with her dehydration. I wrapped her finger myself using the supplies one of the medics gave me. When I had finished, she kissed my cheek and thanked me. I promised we'd stop in to see her sometime (both of us knowing full well that _I'd_ be the only one stopping in…but she didn't seem to mind).

The medics let Sherlock and I go after I promised to hydrate and feed myself when I got home, as well as splint my wrist just until the bruising went away. I knew Sherlock had to have some lurid bruises himself, but he refused to let anyone touch him, asserting that Etta and I be taken care of. I told the medics I'd check him over when we got home, since I had to wrap my wrist anyway. That seemed to satisfy all the medical personnel, so they left us alone and we quietly took our leave. Sherlock texted Lestrade and told him that we'd give our statements tomorrow after we'd rested and refuelled. He didn't argue…or if he did, Sherlock told him off. Honestly…I didn't even care.

The cab ride back to the flat was long and right on the fence between relaxed and tense. We were both of us too exhausted to say anything, but my mind was working overtime trying to process everything that had just occurred (and I knew Sherlock's mind rarely ever shut down when he was awake). I mean…I'd just spent the past 24 hours trussed up in a fishing shack with a 10 year old murder witness. Then, we'd almost literally walked the plank as we'd been brought out to the dock and Sherlock had been forced to choose which one of us would live and which one of us would die. I'd been steeling myself for my own death when…miracle of miracles… we are spared once more and now I'm riding home with my partner, alive and kicking.

All I have to say is…if there is some kind of higher power that's directing our movements and bringing us situations designed to test us…I hope they're getting a damned good laugh out of this.

The cab dropped us off on Baker Street, and Sherlock paid him while I went up to unlock the door. Mrs. Hudson appeared in the foyer and wrapped me in a hug, trying not to cry but failing miserably. After we'd divested ourselves of Mrs. Hudson's attention (after I'd assured her that I was just fine and so was Sherlock), we headed upstairs.

I don't know that I've ever been so happy to see the inside of our flat before. There have been plenty of times on our cases where we've had close brushes with serious injury and death (it's kind of an occupational hazard…). But there was something distinctly different about this time and it was a heady experience to try to pinpoint that difference. Danger is inherent in what Sherlock does and I willingly volunteer to be at his side anyway. But this time, it was the element of choice that had thrown me for a loop. Sherlock had chosen my death. I had chosen my death. We had chosen my death over Etta's. It changed things rather significantly. It was different than the pool because we'd both chosen to give our lives so that we might take out Moriarty and end his scheming. Sherlock had asked and I had accepted... for what were we in the face of the greater good? But what are you supposed to do when you've asked your partner and best friend to choose to sacrifice your life for a stranger's?

"John."

I blinked as Sherlock appeared in my field of vision, staring down at me with his damned unreadable grey-green irises.

"Hmm?"

"Go have a shower, John," he said. "I'll make you some tea and some food."

I was too tired to even make a joke about him making food. I just nodded and stumbled down the hall to the loo. I heard him shout something to me about my wrist, but I didn't quite catch it over the sound of the running water. I let the hot water pour over me and wash away everything that had been troubling me. There was definitely going to be a lot of discussion over this. We needed to talk about…well, everything. The argument, my abduction, Etta, the choice, the close brush with death, my confession (which I knew he caught)… oh yeah, there was a lot to talk about. But for right now, I just wanted to peace and the serenity that could only be offered by a jet of hot water.

When I'd finished and changed into my pyjamas, I found Sherlock in the kitchen (also in his pyjamas) with two cups of tea and two plates of buttered toast. I joined him at the table and we tucked in to our small meal. I was glad that Sherlock was eating…he hadn't eaten anything since we'd discovered Etta as a witness, which had been…roughly 36 hours ago or so. It was hardly the longest he'd ever gone without food, but it was still good for him to be eating.

I swallowed a bite of toast and said, "Thank you for the toast, Sherlock."

He hummed in response. A few seconds later he added, "Of course, John. I even took the liberty of removing the fingers from the butter before I used it."

I spat tea out all over the table and began coughing viciously. Sherlock was chuckling, a deep rumbling in his chest and a genuine smile stretching his lips. I heaved a breath and caught up a dish towel from the counter, mopping up the tea. I smacked him over the head (not too gently) and mumbled "Jerk."

We finished our tea and toast in relative silence and then migrated into the living room. We both sat down on the sofa with muffled flops and we sat there in the silence for quite some time, neither one of us willing to break it. I stole little glances at him every now and again, and I knew he was doing the same thing to me. I knew I should just give up and go to bed, but I felt strangely alert even though I could feel the exhaustion seeping into my bones.

"You should go to bed, John," Sherlock finally said.

"Mmm," I agreed.

Silence.

"You're not going, John."

"Brilliant observation, detective."

He snorted and then flopped his body over to face me, crossing his arms over his chest and folding his legs as he did so. He looked me in the eye and spoke.

"We both know that you intend to have a discussion about what happened at the docks tonight, so let's just get it over with," he said snarkily.

I felt a flash of irritation at his sass. "Just get it over with?" I asked. "Sherlock, you make it sound as if it were… oh, for god's sake did you forget the part where I was abducted and almost killed?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh don't be so dramatic, John."

I punched him. My right fist connected with his perfectly sculpted jaw and knocked his head backwards into the couch cushion. I stood up and began to pace the room while rubbing my sore knuckles. He was gently kneading the red skin on his jaw and glaring at me.

"Oh don't glare at me, Sherlock," I spat. "You bloody well deserved that and you know it. 'Don't be dramatic, John'," I mimicked. I felt the exhaustion evaporate from my body and be replaced by red-hot anger. "How can you be so bloody inconsiderate? How can you seem so concerned when I've got my head stuck in the proverbial guillotine and then turn around and act like what we just went through was no big deal?"

He sniffed and rubbed his jaw, avoiding my eyes. "I was…concerned," he muttered. "I am concerned," he corrected when I rolled my eyes.

I laughed. "Oh really, Sherlock? Is your concern for me conditional? Hmm? Do you only care about me when I've got guns pressed to my head or bombs strapped to my chest? That's what it seems like to me. Don't be so dramatic? Really…from the king of dramatics himself I get 'don't be so dramatic'." I paced around a little before snapping at him again, letting out all the frustration I'd felt at him and at myself the past few days…weeks…months. "You know, I think I have every right to be a little dramatic, Sherlock. I was abducted, and not for the first time since I've gotten into this messed up partnership. I was tied up and beaten and then I was paraded out in front of you, where they made you choose between killing me and killing a little girl. I know I asked you to choose Etta over me and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. But we survived and now I have to face the fact that I asked my best friend to let me die and he agreed. That… that messes with your head a little bit!"

I stopped when I saw him gently set his feet on the ground and then hunch over so that his elbows were pressed into his knees. He hid his face in his hands so that all I could see was the top of his curly head. There was a devastating silence in the flat for all of 15.8 seconds before I heard the first little choking sound coming from the huddled man sitting on the couch. I felt my face soften as I took in Sherlock's shaking shoulders and back. He was… he was crying. Sherlock Holmes… he never cried, not for real anyway. But here he was, quietly sobbing into his hands. Something in my heart twanged painfully and I felt the irritation ebb away into something else. I gently knelt beside him and brought my hands up to rest on his forearms.

"Just…tell me if you care, Sherlock," I said. "I need to know." I felt him tense up and he sniffed, but he didn't say anything. I sighed and rubbed his arms carefully, knowing that there were tender bruises under the sleeves of his dressing gown.

"Look," I said. "It's not easy for me to tell you this, but tonight at the docks I realised something very profound. Sherlock…for the past few months I've been trying to… get you to like me…as more than a friend. When I got stabbed that one time… the Santiago case months and months back… you were so anxious and so concerned about me, I thought maybe… you were trying to show me that you cared about me in a…special way. I've been to trying to…seduce you over the past few months."

I chuckled a little, trying to show him that it was a very silly notion. "It was an…experiment of sorts, I guess. I just felt myself feeling for you in ways that were a little bit stronger than the platonic friendship we had. I couldn't help it…I tried to deny it and ignore it but… you have a magnetic pull that's hard to resist, Sherlock."

He still didn't say anything, but I could feel his pulse pick up under my hands and his shoulders had stopped shaking. I continued, knowing that if I didn't get this out now, I probably never would (and if I did it probably wouldn't have this kind of gravity).

"Sherlock, when we were standing on the dock and that madman asked you to choose, I knew I was going to die. Even if you said my name, I would have done anything to stop Etta from being killed. Anyway… Sherlock, when you face oblivion, all sorts of unquestionable truths appear in your final moments. You stop praying, you stop wishing, you stop hoping…and for just a few minutes you exist wholly in the now, because the now is all you're ever going to have. There will be no future, there is no past…there's just you and the bullet that's coming for you. And when you're in that moment where there's nothing except you and the now…you realise things and all sorts of questions become answered because you finally know what answers you want when everything else is stripped away."

I leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss into his curls. "Sherlock, when I stripped everything away and it was me and the now… I realised that you are the most insane person I've ever met. You are rude, inconsiderate, childish, and utterly mad. But you are also so brilliant and so generous and kind when people least expect it, which is when they need it the most. You are addictive, Sherlock. I've seen you at your best and I've seen you at your worst… and I understand with complete clarity who you are. And gods help me, but I love you, you hopelessly impossible man."

I'm not sure how many minutes slipped away before he moved. But when he finally did, he raised his reddened face and said,

"I know."

* * *

**Okay. So that's the penultimate chapter. It was a long one, thank for hanging in there. **

**PS: I totally confess to using _deus ex machina_ with the sniper to get them out. Maybe a bit anticlimatic, but...I regret nothing! Vive la resistance! **

**Alright...next chapter, get on with you... **


	10. Step 7: Reverberation

**This is it...the final chapter... please try to hold it together. ;)**

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Step Seven: Reverberation

**Told from John's POV**

"I know."

Time ground to a screeching halt and the words…those two simple words began careening around the inside of my brain like a ricocheting bullet. He knew. Sherlock knew.

I mean…of course he knew. That bastard could tell an airplane pilot from his right thumb at forty paces, why the hell wouldn't he know that his flatmate was trying to seduce him? I almost chuckled aloud at my own folly. Seducing Sherlock Holmes…the man who could see everything... Of course he'd seen right through it and right through me. How could I have ever thought that he wouldn't have known?

I forced myself to look into his eyes and I knew he was doing it again. He was watching me expectantly, looking for my reactions and watching my unconscious movements to deduce my thoughts and feelings. Damn the man…I bet he'd known since the beginning and was doing his own counter-experiment. That had to be it…the reason he was allowing all of this to happen without any sort of odd remarks or looks. He'd been letting me seduce him so that he could gather his own data about me. I felt my stomach turn in shame and guilt and anguish. Turnabout is fair play, but Sherlock was playing havoc with my very real emotional response. I'd kept going because I genuinely thought he was responding to my advances. Now… I couldn't help but doubt his reactions and condemn them as acts to forward the experiment.

I released his forearms as if they'd suddenly turned into hot irons and stood up, backing away quickly. He watched me go with a curious look on his face, his eyebrows drawn slightly downward. I felt the blood begin to pool in my cheeks and the tips of my ears.

"Ah. Goodnight then," I mumbled. I turned a sharp about-face and strode off towards my bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. I shut my door with a soft click and collapsed on my bed with a muffled thump. Staring up at the ceiling, I tried to regain control over my breathing and my heartbeat, both of which were speeding with anxiety.

I heard a soft knock at my door and Sherlock's silky baritone saying "John?"

I considered telling him to go away, but I knew he'd ignore me, so I just laid there and said nothing. When he came into the room, I sat up at the edge of the bed and just watched him. He was staring at me with a very puzzled expression on his face, and that turned my own curiosity.

"Is everything alright, John?" he asked.

I barked out a short laugh, unable to stop it from coming out of my mouth. "You tell me," I challenged, folding my arms over my chest.

He cocked his head to the side and straightened up and took a few hesitant steps forward. His eyes never left mine, the infinite universe in his irises flickering over me in a close perusal.

"You're upset because I knew that you'd been experimenting with seducing me and I didn't mention it to you," he stated in a low voice.

I clapped my hands and said, "Well done, Sherlock. You'll get a gold star for that one." I was being very sarcastic but I didn't care.

Sherlock tentatively crept forward and lowered himself to the edge of my bed. When I didn't reach out to strike him, he shifted his weight so that he was sitting more comfortably and facing me more directly.

"Why does that upset you, John?" There was an honest curiosity in his voice that instead of mollifying me, made me even more upset. For a man who knew so much, he was also so very dense.

I sighed. "If you knew what I was doing, Sherlock, why didn't you stop me?"

He blinked a couple of times. "What?" he asked.

I sighed again and turned so that I was facing him head on. "Sherlock, I was a fool to think I could all that and have you not notice that I was doing something. So if you've known the whole time… why didn't you stop me from doing it?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why would I stop you from doing it? I was…curious. I wanted to know why you were attempting it."

"So it was all an experiment then?"

Sherlock threw his hands out in a wide gesture. "You were experimenting on me, John."

My heart squeezed in my chest. "I know, but I… I genuinely care about you. I was experimenting because I wanted to see if you…cared about me in more than a platonic way."

"I know you were."

"Exactly," I muttered. "So…if you knew about what I was doing, I just want to know why you let me keep going. I let myself continue with the seduction because I thought you were genuinely interested in me. But…you weren't, were you? You just…reacted the way I wanted you to so you could gauge my reactions and that's…a bit not good. Why did you let me embarrass myself like that when you clearly didn't reciprocate?"

Sherlock's back straightened and he looked at me with clear, calculating eyes. "Who said that I didn't reciprocate, John?"

I felt a multitude of sensations wrack my body all at once. The oxygen in my lungs wheezed out. I felt my stomach churn in suspicion but my heart leaped with hope. It was all very peculiar and I coughed a couple of times to clear the dust bunnies from my brain.

"Okay," I wheezed. "But my question still stands, Sherlock," I said. "If you knew that I was trying to seduce you, why didn't you… why'd you let it happen? If you…felt the same way… I could have ended the charade weeks ago. If you didn't feel the same way, I could have stopped embarrassing myself. Why didn't you say anything?"

He turned his face away from me and stared at the floor for a long number of silent minutes. I could hear my anxious heart fluttering in my ears and I noticed that one of Sherlock's hands was intensely kneading the duvet under his fingers, signalling his tension.

"Iddnowyudwantdothat," he mumbled under his breath.

"Come again?" I asked, unable to string together the syllables into a cohesive sentence.

He inhaled very deeply and then turned his gaze to me once more. "I didn't know why you'd want to…do that."

"Why would I want to do what?" I asked.

Something shifted in his facial structure and I was now looking upon a Sherlock Holmes I'd never met before. This Sherlock Holmes was a thousand times more open and raw than the confident and arrogant detective that roamed the streets of London solving crimes and bossing around policemen. This Sherlock Holmes looked so youthful and innocent. This Sherlock Holmes was inexperienced and naïve. This was the human underneath, the sensitive counterpoint to his frequent tactlessness. There are two sides to every coin, and now I was seeing the heart on the opposite side of the head.

"Why would you….want me?" he asked in a very small voice that was so unlike Sherlock that I almost didn't catch it.

"What?" I breathed.

He exhaled sharply and then stood up from the bed. He started to pace the floor directly in front of me and began talking rapidly. "I noticed that you were attempting to seduce me and the attentions made me very curious. At first, I dismissed it because I thought it was a completely ridiculous premise to think that someone would actually be seducing me. I mean, do you even hear how ridiculous that sounds? Anyone who knows me understands my position on relationships and such silly things as that, and I knew that you would understand more than anyone else since you are my best friend and my closest companion. And yet, here you were all the same, doing things that at first I interpreted as you just being a good friend. But as time pressed on, I realised there was something…deeper in your actions. Once I discovered that you were honestly interested in…romancing me, I was a bit taken aback. I had a mountain of evidence that suggested that you were literally trying to seduce me and I didn't understand why. Why would you do that? How could you do that? I'm the least likeable person you know and here you were, pining for my attention. It was…mind-boggling. I thought of at least seventy-three reasons why I should call you out, but I…couldn't bring myself to actually do the deed."

Sherlock kneeled in front of me and looked into my eyes as he continued to speak. "I didn't say anything to you because as much as I do not understand…this," he gestured vaguely between the two of us, "or you or relationships or romance or love… I found that I wanted it. Or at least I thought I wanted it. I found myself craving your attentions and wanting to dispel them all at the same time."

He dropped his head and stared at my knees. "It's all….very confusing to me, John. There's so much that goes on in my head and very little of it is related to sentiment in any form. I've always believed sentiment to be a very dangerous thing, John. Contrary to what people may think, I do understand what emotion is and I do feel… I just do not understand how to let those emotions in my brain without interfering with my work. It seemed so much simpler to just…ignore them and push them to the back of my brain and bury them there."

He turned his head up to me and cautiously raised one slim hand and laid it gently upon my cheek. I leaned into the surprising warmth and I swear I heard the man purr with content. He stared into my eyes and my heart and my soul. "I don't know why you feel the things you feel towards me. I don't know how you do it. I don't understand why anyone with a heart like yours would desire someone like me. More importantly, I need you to understand that even though I don't know how to do any of this… I need you too, John."

Sherlock dropped his hand from my face and used both of them to find my own hands. He laced his fingers through mine and squeezed tightly. "You said that when you stripped everything away and were only left with yourself and the now, you found the answers to your questions because you suddenly knew what you were hoping for. I didn't have quite the same experience, but it was something very similar. I chose your death and suddenly I knew what I wanted because I was going to lose it and I was devastated."

He shook his head slowly. "This is very hard for me to admit, and you know that. So please take this confession and this…reverberation of your feelings for me as sincerity. I think you need me and I need you. And I'll have you any way you'll allow me to."

I exhaled slowly as his thumbs started to caress the backs of my hands slowly and smoothly. He was right of course… I knew exactly how much that confession had taken from him. Sherlock Holmes lived a very unpredictable life filled with chaos and inconsistency. His solitude was his protection; it was much easier to remain stable in an unstable world when there was nothing to upset your balance. And yet…here he was, telling me that he was willing to surrender his seclusion even more than he already had. He'd opened to let me in as his friend and now he was going to give up even more so that I could be his…lover. It was the most profound and powerful realisation I've ever had and the most unselfish and courageous act I'd ever witnessed.

So when I leaned down to connect my lips with his, I poured every ounce of gratitude and faith I possessed into it. Our kiss was a slow and luxuriating give-and-take and I felt him melt beneath me as surely as I was dissolving under his touch. His hands latched behind my neck and mine found his soft curls. There was nothing else in the world except for him and me and our lips meeting in undisputed trust and devotion. Everything we were was in that kiss and that kiss was everything that was us. When the first ended, we slipped seamlessly into the next one as expertly as old lovers. We were a perfect harmony… an echo of matched hearts and souls.

We slept in my bed that night as the physical exhaustion of the past 40-odd hours plus the sheer emotional fatigue began to overtake us. As sleep began to take me, I felt something in my brain snick quietly into place as Sherlock wrapped his long arms around me and buried his face in my hair. As I held his hands around my chest, a dreamlike peace overtook me and that night I dreamed only in pastel shades of gold and green.

Step seven, reverberation, was complete.

**_Fin_**

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**Well...that's all for this fic, folks. I hope the chapter above was still within character enough. I like to believe that Sherlock is actually a very passionate creature... when he gets involved in things, he goes in with his whole being, whether it's being a detective or a scientist or an irritating git. I thought he would naturally gravitate towards a wholehearted reverberation, even if it scared and confused him. I have a friend who is like Sherlock in the way that he is irritating, arrogant, and flabbergasting. But when he's not being an ass...he's the sweetest and most generous and respectful person. There's no grey area...just black and white, and I think that's kinda how Sherlock operates too. **

**Thank you so much for following along with this story... the support has been so intensely awesome. :) Here's the part where I shamelessly promote my other stories and the new ones that I'm currently working on (should be posting the first chapter of a "Five Times..." saga today!). **

**Please don't drink and drive or ride with people who drink and drive because... you can die that way. Please make responsible choices this weekend so that you stay safe and get home to your loved ones safe and sound, and whatever you do...have a kickass weekend. :) **

**Thank you again. :) **


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